The Storm
by illuminata79
Summary: A bad storm is forecast in late summer of 1933.
1. Calm Before Storm

"Oh, dammit all to hell!" Grandpa cursed when the spanner slipped from his oily hands for the third time in a row as he tried to loosen some stuck screws on the outboard motor he was repairing.

I looked up from the trestle table by the back door where I was poring over the books and put down my pen. "Grandpa, why don't you let me help you?"

"I'm not yet too old to do my repairs myself", he grumbled huffily. "You see to it that those books are in order."

"Fine, whatever you say", I murmured, a little stung by his harsh reaction.

There was no denying that his age was gradually taking its toll on him. He had never quite recovered from the shock of Mom's accident which had aggravated his tendency for grumpiness, and his movements had grown continually slower and less energetic as the pain in his worn joints worsened.

Still he was not ready to waste a thought on retirement. He had been out fishing ever since his thirteenth year, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as he could. I admired his stubborn determination to work on, but he could be quite hard to be with when he was forced to admit that there were things that didn't come as easy to him as they used to.

He had managed to prise the seized-up screws off at the fourth attempt and was dismantling the engine, making a tremendous noise as he laid out the bits and pieces on the ground.

Grandma came out the back door, shouting at Grandpa not to make such a racket and handing me a letter. Classy cream-coloured paper, addressed in a familiar longhand. "It's so lovely that she still keeps writing", Grandma smiled, "even now that she's engaged to her banker's heir."

"Thank you, Grandma. Rub it in." I snatched the envelope from her hand and shoved it under the open ledger without another glance, wondering once more how a person as compassionate as my grandmother normally was could sometimes be so tactless.

It had been more than two years now that Eliza had gone back to Boston not long after her parents returned from overseas. A few weeks after my last trip to Missouri, they had summoned her back home. She left very shortly after she had appeared on our threshold, not at all her usual cheerful self, to give me the bad news tearfully.

One last walk over to the lighthouse, and she was gone. I tried to fill the raw void in my heart with even harder work, tried to let the waves wash away the pain when I ran down to the cove every morning, no matter the weather, to dive into the cold salt water and swim out into the ocean as far as I dared. Needless to say that I kept missing her anyway.

She wrote to me regularly at first. My heart did a little joyous jump every time I saw her handwriting on the envelope, but it was always accompanied by the sharp sting of regret. Sometimes I wished she'd stop writing and let the ache in my soul finally heal, while another part of my mind relished the little anecdotes she penned for me in her witty, eloquent style and balked at the idea of breaking this last connection.

After a while, I managed to shut away the feelings I still had for her, sensing she wouldn't come back for me. It hurt nevertheless when Ruth Wilson recently told Grandma that Eliza had got engaged to the promising son of a successful Boston banker. I couldn't say I was surprised, though.

I _was_ surprised that she had written again. Her letters had become rarer and rarer as both of us continued to live our separate, very different lives. I hadn't heard from her for months and was almost startled to find she had not completely forgotten about me yet.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Grandma insisted. "Don't you want to know what she writes?"

"Oh, Grandma. Stop nagging, _please_." I knew my tone was too snippy, but I couldn't help myself.

Grandma stiffly walked back into the kitchen without another word and yanked the door forcefully shut from inside.

I sighed and focused on my numbers again.

Grandpa had finished clanging around with his engine parts and was cleaning them diligently, piece by piece. "What'd you do to make your grandma mad?" he asked after a while.

I shrugged noncommittally. I wasn't in the mood to discuss Eliza all over again.

We worked in silence for a while until the back door was opened once more. Grandma came outside again, still in the lightweight coat and the hat she had donned for going to the grocery store. I didn't pay much attention to what she was saying, as I was trying to find an error somewhere in my figures. They didn't quite add up and I had trouble finding the fault.

She hurried over – her sometimes fearful energy had not diminished a bit - and said, leaning forward over my table, "Young man, I'm talking to you!"

"Sorry", I said, unnerved. "Say it again."

"Mrs. Mulligan needs your help, Mick. Just met her at Jem's. She's got an appointment with that specialist in Portland tomorrow morning – you know, that doctor she sees for the trouble with her eyes – and Ted promised to drive her, but he's caught that stomach flu everyone seems to get at the moment, and she's afraid of taking the bus on her own because last time she did, she missed a step when getting off because she couldn't see it properly, and …"

"I'll drive her if I have to", I cut in. "Only problem is that we'd planned to go out for the last good fishing day tomorrow before the weather changes. You know Grandpa can't go alone. The forecast is pretty bad from Thursday on."

"I know. Jack Mulligan is going to help Grandpa in return for your chauffeur service. His companion can run the workshop on his own for a day. Everything's taken care of then." Grandma smiled, satisfied with her organisational skills, ignoring the dirty looks Grandpa shot her over his scattered collection of engine parts. He didn't think much of Jack's fishing or sailing abilities, but he couldn't possibly refuse helping a neighbour out.

I felt a little guilty for actually looking forward to the prospect of driving into town, leaving Grandpa alone with well-meaning but utterly clumsy Jack. But I had loved the occasional outing in Ted's car ever since he had taught me all I needed to know about driving and repairing a car. I hadn't had much opportunity to put my skills to any use lately. Too much work at the height of the fishing season.

"Sorry, Grandpa", I said when Grandma had slipped back inside.

He screwed up his face into a grimace of comical exasperation, heaved an exaggerated sigh and said, "What could you have done but say yes, lad? I've known her for long enough now to know she won't take no for an answer if she wants you to do something. It's Jack for me tomorrow and Mrs. Mulligan for you if your grandma says so." His voice was gruff, but the mellow indulgence in his eyes, now fixed on Grandma's small figure behind the kitchen window, busy sorting through and packing away her groceries, and the tiny smile playing around his mouth belied his tone.

I averted my gaze, feeling as if I had intruded upon a very intimate moment.

Was _this_ what love was all about? Not the wild rush of emotion that took your appetite away and made you do strange things, but something steadfastly lasting, something that could weather any storm? Not blazing fireworks shooting up into the sky but the unspectacular, reliable, steady flame of a candle that kept burning long after the flashy fireworks had died?

I wondered if that was what Eliza and I could have had in the long run.

I wondered if it was still her that I missed or just the idea of someone by my side, someone to love me and to be loved in return.

I wondered if I would ever find a true soulmate.


	2. Tempest

The next morning, Mrs. Mulligan crossed the street in her good dress, coat and hat, lengthily thanking me for pitching in for Ted.

She chattered all the way into town. I merely threw in the odd "yes" or "no" or "uh-huh" or a little laugh, not really listening to her goings-on about village gossip, illnesses and the weather.

And her sons, of course. Jack, the elder, was no great use on a fishing boat and generally a bit on the maladroit side but surprisingly good at his own trade, carpentry. He had taken over the family workshop after his father's death a few years ago. Billy, the younger, was a little older than me and worked at the local fishing port. We had become rather good friends and occasionally went out together. I liked his humour and easy-going nature. He never seemed to take anything seriously and always managed to find something funny in any situation. The village girls were crazy about his dazzling blue eyes and ready smile.

His mother sighed, "I wish Billy would calm down a bit and find himself a nice girl to marry, too. Jack is so happy with Eileen and the little ones."

I refrained from commenting on this. I couldn't really imagine adventurous Billy settling down just yet. Jack was quieter and homelier by nature, he had never needed to sow his wild oats as Billy did. But that was something I was certainly not going to discuss with Billy's mother.

While she was seeing her doctor, I went to buy a few spare parts for the boat I had promised to get for Grandpa and lazily drifted through the downtown streets for a while afterwards, enjoying the unexpected freedom from my usual duties, until it was time to pick up my passenger and drive back home.

I found Grandma in the garden, tending her vegetables, when I rounded the corner of the house to stow my purchases in Grandpa's little tool shed. "Good that you're back, Mick!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on the old skirt she usually wore for gardening. "You can help me now that you're home anyway. I think it's about time that we dig up that withered rose bush, even though it breaks my heart. Those little pink roses always smelled so sweet. But it hasn't had any blossoms for several years and I think it's finished. Grandpa keeps promising me he'll take care of it but he never gets around to it, and besides, you know, his bad knee and his back …"

"All right, Grandma. I'll get a spade. Just let me change clothes first."

"Sure. There are some sandwiches for you on the kitchen table. Thought you'd be hungry."

"Lovely. Thanks." I was indeed famished and wolfed the sandwiches down in no time before I changed into my working clothes and went back outside to help Grandma with her rose bush and various other assignments she gave me.

In the early afternoon, the skies darkened and gusts of wind rustled the leaves. Not much later, the first raindrops spattered my face. "Looks like that bad weather is a little early", Grandma said with a wary look at the steel-grey skies and began collecting her garden tools.

Within minutes, both the wind and the rain picked up and turned into a full-blown thunderstorm. The trees and scrubs were shaking madly in the gale. I ran to lock the door of the tool shed and the henhouse and was soaking wet by the time I closed the back door behind me.

"Hurry off and get changed before you drip all over the kitchen floor", Grandma ordered. She was putting the kettle on to make some tea. "I hope John and Jack are safely back in port by now", she added, peering out into the torrential rain. "I hate having one of you out in that kind of weather."

Two hours later, Grandpa and Jack still hadn't shown up. The tempest had subsided, but the wind hadn't died down entirely and the rain kept beating down relentlessly.

Grandma grew quieter by the minute, her usual loquacity falling victim to increasing anxiety.

"Guess they got stuck at Pete's", I suggested, not really believing my own words. Every now and then Grandpa would have a few pints at the port tavern after a long working day, but Jack wasn't much of a drinker, and Grandpa, although he'd never have admitted it if asked, always made sure he came home as early as possible if the weather was bad so Grandma wouldn't be too worried.

"I'll skin them alive if I find out that they did", Grandma growled through gritted teeth, clenching her fists. "If only that rain would stop so I could go out and find them."

"I can go if you want me to", I offered, half getting up as I spoke, hoping for a chance to escape the anxious tension that was beginning to take hold of me, too, the longer we waited. Searching for Grandpa, actually _doing_ something, would be better than sitting around, even if it meant venturing outside in the pouring rain.

"You stay right here, young man", Grandma objected decidedly, almost panicked. "Please don't go", she added in a softer tone of voice.

I sat back down on my chair hastily and reached for her hand. She had small hands with protruding blue veins, wrinkled and work-worn, but her grip was as strong as ever. She held on to my hand as if never to let go again, squeezing it hard for reassurance.

The noisy old wall clock ticked off the passing seconds mercilessly. Minutes. Another hour.

Grandma had begun to shiver and wrapped her old cardigan tighter around herself. "I don't like that", she murmured again and again. "I don't like that at all."

Apart from that, we waited in silence, listening for any sound that might herald the desired arrival, but there was nothing except the patter of the rain and the howl of the wind and the odd rumble of thunder in the distance.

At some point, she had extracted her cold little hand from mine and taken up her knitting to keep her hands busy. I couldn't think of anything sensible to do, so I just sat on my hard-backed kitchen chair, nervously fiddling with a corner of the waxed tablecloth, picking at a half-healed cut on the back of my hand until it was bleeding again, twirling a lock of hair around my finger.

The rain diminished, then ceased. I pushed back my chair determinedly. "I'll go and see where they are", I announced and went to get my shoes and a jumper.

I was halfway up the stairs when a few loud bangs on the front door made me jump. I stumbled back downstairs, almost tripping over my own big feet.

Could that be Grandpa? Had he lost his keys? Why didn't he come in the back door?

I tore open the door and found myself eye to eye with Tom Edwards. He was one of the lighthouse keepers over at the headland, a tall, bearded man, normally the epitome of calm.

Not now, though. He appeared shaken and out of breath and swallowed hard before he spoke. "Good God, Mick, you're _here_", he blurted out. "I thought you were … was your grandpa out on his boat alone today?"

"Uh, no, Jack Mulligan was with him. Why? What's the matter?" I tried hard to keep my growing fear out of my voice.

Tom ran a hand over his eyes. "They just found the _Seahorse_, my lad, or what's left of her. Storm threw her on the rocks outside the port entrance. I'm so sorry, son."

"And … and Grandpa? Jack?"

"Your grandpa's been very lucky, he's alive. They're trying to get him off the boat now that the rain and storm are over. Don't know about Jack, though. Nobody's seen him."

My mind was totally blank for a moment, then my first impulse was to run off on the spot and see for myself that Grandpa was alive. A movement behind me reminded me of Grandma's presence. She had ventured out of the kitchen with slow, halting steps very untypical of her, eyes large and pleading in her pale face.

"Mary", Tom said flatly. "So sorry about the boat. I'm afraid it's wrecked beyond repair. But John's alright, what's much more important."

I moved towards her, wanted to hold her, but she warded me off with an outstretched arm. "I want to see for myself", she said. "Let's go."

"But Mary …", Tom protested.

"We are going. Now. Are you coming along or not?" Off she marched, a small, resolute figure. I had never seen her walk that fast. Tom and I barely managed to keep up with her.

The sun was back out, glittering off the newly calm surface of the sea as if nothing had happened.

A bunch of people had gathered by the port to watch the rescue crew. We had not yet quite arrived there when we heard subdued cheers. I sped up and broke into a run.

The crowd had parted to let two figures pass through. I only had eyes for the smaller of them. Walking on his own two feet, wet and battered, blood smeared down the side of his face and without the cap he always wore, but alive.

"Grandpa!" I shouted and hurried to embrace him, seconds before Grandma flung herself at him. "John! My God, John, I thought you'd … where's that blood coming from? What on earth happened? Why didn't you turn around earlier? Didn't you realize the weather was changing?" She pushed him back and hit him in the chest twice with her small hard fists. People gasped audibly. "You scared me to death!"

I grabbed her hands before she could strike him again. "Go easy on him, Grandma. He needs a rest, and a doctor, I think. You can scold him later."

Grandpa hadn't said a word yet. He looked up at me, his usually sparkling blue eyes slate grey and empty, jerked his thumb into the direction where the _Blue Seahorse_ lay, or what was left of it, and shook his head in desolation, shoulders sagging. "Our boat, my lad, our beautiful seahorse lady", he said in a terribly toneless voice. "Now I have nothing to leave to you when I go."

"Don't worry about that, Grandpa. You're still here. That's what counts. We can always get a new boat."

"Yes, yes, we can", he mumbled absent-mindedly.

I didn't have the heart to ask him about Jack.

"Now let me have a look at you, Mr. Walsh", said an authoritative voice from behind. Dr. Logan had pushed through the crowd with his black doctor's bag. "Can you walk to the harbour master's office? We'll have some more privacy there."

He reached for Grandpa's arm to steady him, but Grandpa shook his hand off angrily. "I can walk on my own, thank you very much." I couldn't quite suppress a little grin at this show of bravado.

Grandma and I followed them into the small building, watching closely as the doctor examined Grandpa and tended to the laceration on his forehead. He had slipped and hit his head when the boat ran aground, knocking himself out for a while. When he came to, Jack was gone. Grandpa had assumed he'd scrambled off the boat while he himself had been unconscious and somehow made it up the rock face to get help.

"Where's he after all, Jack? Home with the family already? Anyone seen him?"

I remembered Tom's words _Don't know about Jack, _but I wasn't sure if he had been found, dead or alive. I looked at Dr. Logan for help.

"They are still searching for him, Mr. Walsh. Obviously, he was thrown off the boat. We don't know anything definite yet. Let's hope for the best."

Grandpa's face twisted in sheer agony. Slowly, he brought a trembling hand to his forehead. "No, no, _please_, tell me he's all right. He'll come home, won't he? Please say he will."

"Grandpa", I said softly, "there's nothing we can do right now but hope and wait."

"And pray", Grandma added somewhat sternly.

"Yes, that, too."

We took Grandpa home. The crowd on the pier had largely dispersed with just a few diehards staying behind to wait for the search crew to return.

Grandma made Grandpa eat a bit of soup and have some hot tea, but he was too shaken and exhausted to manage much. We all went to bed early, although I was sure none of us slept.


	3. Aftermath

I saw the new day dawning brightly and hoped it would yield the news to relieve our fears.

News it was going to bring, but no relief.

Certain that I wouldn't manage to go to sleep any more, I threw back the covers and went over to the window. The early morning sun cast an almost magical light over the quiet scenery, reflecting off the windows at the Mulligans' home just across the street.

A lonely figure was turning the corner at the far end of the road, still too small in the distance to make out who it was.

I wondered if there was news about Jack. I wondered if they had found him.

And I wondered what would have happened if I had been on the boat in his place. Could I have done something to prevent the disaster, something that Jack had lacked the knowledge or experience to do, or would they be searching for me instead of him now?

I was hot and cold at the same time and dazed by that light-headed queasiness that follows a sleepless night. Suddenly the room appeared unbearably tiny and stifling. I tore open the window and leaned out, deeply breathing in the fresh morning air, relishing its chilly touch on my face and bare arms and shoulders for a moment.

The man walking down the street had come closer. Only when I looked at his unusually grave face did I recognize Alfred Farley, our ever-jolly fellow fisherman. Today there was not a trace of the usual spring in his step, his posture was very tense. The man was every inch bad news on legs.

I watched him stop at the Mulligan's front door with a sinking feeling, saw him raise a hand to knock and then hesitate for a moment and square his shoulders before he finally rapped on the brown wooden door.

I turned away from the window before the door was opened, feeling like an involuntary intruder on a very private scene.

Birds were twittering outside. The occasional cry of a seagull mingled with their inappropriately happy little noises. I wanted to yell at them to shut up for God's sake, that there was nothing to chirrup about on this deceptively sunny morning.

A muffled cry reached my ear through the birdsong. Or had I imagined it?

I bit my lip and closed my eyes, burying my face in my hands. "Oh, shit", I whispered. "Goddamn fucking shit."

I dropped down on my rickety chair and stared blankly into a corner, fearing the moment that someone would tell me officially what I already knew.

After a while, I heard Grandma's footsteps on the stairs and rose from my chair to get dressed.

Yesterday's shirt was lying crumpled on the small table that served as my desk. I snatched it off the stack of paper that sat there and threw it on. Something hit the floor with a smack. It was Eliza's letter that had remained unopened so far. I picked it up, stared at it for a moment and tossed it into the wastepaper basket on an impulse. It seemed to be a relict from another life that was of no importance to me any more.

Barefoot, I went downstairs and found Grandma making tea in the kitchen.

"How's Grandpa?" I asked anxiously.

"Still sleeping", she answered. "He's been tossing and turning all night long and finally fell asleep around five. I didn't get a wink of sleep and thought I might as well get up."

It was obvious that she hadn't slept. She looked like a ghost, grey-faced and exhausted, the wrinkles in her face sharp, dark lines, bluish shadows under sunken eyes.

I wanted to tell her what I had witnessed earlier but couldn't bring myself to say it.

We ate a listless breakfast in silence. I kept listening for someone to knock on the door to break the terrible news, but no one came, not until we had cleared the table and done the dishes and I was wondering what to do next. Strange to be home on a Thursday morning in fine weather.

I thought about walking to the port to inspect the remains of the _Blue Seahorse_, but I didn't want Grandma to be alone while Grandpa was, hopefully, sleeping off the worst physical consequences of the accident. And I dreaded the sight of our beautiful little lady, as Grandpa loved to call her, lying broken on the rocks we had steered her past safely so many times.

Grandma said she'd go out to collect the eggs, and would I mind digging over the disused vegetable bed?

She walked out the back door and into the chicken pen while I went into the shed for a shovel and, when I tripped over a bundle of fishing nets by the door, decided to tidy up a bit before doing Grandma's garden work.

I had hardly begun rummaging through the chaos of tools and utensils Grandpa had collected over the course of decades when someone called my name from the doorway. My heart sank as I saw Alfred standing there, uneasily turning his unlit pipe in his thick fingers. Hastily, I clambered over the large wooden chest of assorted junk that blocked my way and wiped my dusty hands down on my working pants, anxiously waiting for him to speak.

He winced and swallowed hard before he told me in a hoarse voice that he had been among the search crew that had found Jack in the early morning hours near the lighthouse. His body had been washed upon the flat rocks by the incoming tide. "Didn't stand a chance from the look of him. They said he took a fall that broke his neck instantly. At least it seems he didn't drown."

"Yes ... at least …", I stammered, at the same time feeling stupid at my inarticulateness and knowing that nothing I said could be adequate in the face of this terrible loss. Another father, husband, son and brother gone, claimed by the ocean, the greatest tragedy being that this had not even been his element. Had the circumstances been different, he would never have been out in the storm in the first place. Again I wondered if it should not have been me out with Grandpa on the _Seahorse._

Alfred took off his cap, scratched his head of bristly greying hair, slapped the cap back on and grimly said, "Hate when those things happen. Poor Fiona tried to be brave when I told her but broke down in the end. These are hard times for her. First Dave and his heart attack at fifty-two, and now Jack gone, too. What a waste. And poor Eileen and the little 'uns." Alfred's brown eyes in his broad, good-natured face were suspiciously shiny.

"How's John?" he asked after a moment of trying to regain composure.

"He'll be alright, I guess", I said hesitantly. "He's not seriously hurt, nothing broken, just a gash on his temple. He was very upset, though, about the boat and Jack and everything."

"Can't blame him", Alfred said. "The _Seahorse_'snot a pretty sight any more. John was pretty damn lucky to get out of that alive." He patted my shoulder with his large paw. "Gotta go, son. Give my best wishes to your John and your grandma."

He turned to leave, dragging his feet in his fisherman's boots. I watched his stocky figure until he disappeared from view, leaning against the doorjamb, running a weary hand over my face.

Now I was even more worried about Grandpa. How would he ever cope with Jack's young life lost on our boat? He'd keep blaming himself mercilessly.

This was not the only question that plagued me. Why did those things happen in the first place? Why did Jack have to die? Why did God take away parents from their children, and children from their parents, and why couldn't the storm have occurred a few hours later when everyone was safely home? Why hadn't I defied Grandma for once, insisting that Mrs. Mulligan get another appointment with her doctor for another day? Why hadn't Grandpa seen the tempest coming? How could the weather forecast have been so wrong?

And how was I to look Billy in the eye again, and his mother, and Jack's orphaned family? They must be wishing the storm had taken me instead of Jack.

A head full of questions and nobody to answer them. I pounded the doorframe with my fist in frustration and turned round to resume the huge undertaking of cleaning out Grandpa's messy shed.

As if that was important now. I had to keep myself occupied, though, or I would go mad.

I walked smack into the open chest in the middle of the room, ripping my pants and barking my shin painfully on the metal fittings of the lid. Sudden anger flooded me, and I kicked the wood with my heavy working boots, hard. The old boards splintered, and my foot got stuck in the hole. I jerked it back angrily and felt like such an idiot.

I decided to give up on the shed for the moment. Maybe swimming would help clear my head. I went looking for Grandma in the garden to tell her I was going to nip down to the beach.

She wasn't there. Small gardening tools lay strewn among the flower and vegetable beds, a small rake lying, prongs facing up, in the middle of the path.

Automatically, I picked it up to make sure nobody would step onto it, just as Grandma had taught me.

The same moment, there was a shrill cry from the direction of the house.

I had only heard this desperate, panicked tone of voice once from Grandma, after the phone call on New Year's Day a couple of years ago.

"Mick! Where are you?"

I dropped the rake and whirled round to hurry over to the back door. Her face was a white mask of sheer terror. "He's not waking up, Mick! I can't wake him up! And the phone's not working! Get the doctor, go and get Dr. Logan, quick!"

I ran like I had never run before in my life, disregardful of the cumbersome boots and the tear in my pants and the pain in my grazed shin, ignoring the villagers who gaped at me as I hurtled past them, stumbling clumsily up the doctor's front steps, almost slamming headfirst into the wooden door.

I banged on the door with both hands, shouting the doctor's name.

His assistant opened the door cautiously, obviously expecting a raging madman. With forced politeness, she asked warily, "Hello? What is it?" and then, when she recognized me, "Oh, Mick, it's you … sorry I didn't …"

I cut her apology off brusquely. "We need the doctor, quick!" I panted. "It's Grandpa. He's unconscious and we can't wake him up."

Dr. Logan, who must have noticed the commotion at his front door, poked his head around the door of his consulting room and, hearing what I said, ducked back into the room to grab his bag.

"You come along with me, Mick. We'll take the car."

I sat rigidly in the passenger seat, fingers digging hard into the upholstery.

_Please, let him live,_ I silently implored whatever higher presence there was, _don't let him die before we get home. Please, please, _please.

Dr. Logan braked sharply upon arrival. I burst from the car and rushed to open the unlocked front door, impatient for the doctor to follow me up the worn old stairs.

Grandma raised her head as I opened the door. She was perched on the edge of the bed, holding Grandpa's hand, stroking his cheek and his thin white hair.

"He hasn't woken up, but he's breathing evenly. That's good, Doctor, isn't it?" she said, eyes and voice plaintive.

"We will see", said the doctor in a calm tone and opened his bag.

He made some contented little sounds as he examined the laceration on his temple and went on to check his pulse and breathing.

When Grandpa didn't react to his attempts at waking him up or excite some kind of reaction, he gently lifted one of Grandpa's eyelids and shone a small flashlight into the eye.

His face lost its usual kind but professionally undisturbed expression. I didn't like the way his eyes narrowed.

"Did he complain of a headache or dizziness, Mrs. Walsh? Or did he have trouble talking or walking or holding things?"

Grandma said no, he hadn't, not at all.

He checked the other eye and grimaced regretfully as he straightened up.

I knew what he was going to say and laid a hand on Grandma's bony shoulder. She hadn't moved an inch from Grandpa's side throughout the examination.

"Mrs. Walsh, Mick … it seems that what looked like a harmless concussion was in fact a serious injury to the head that wasn't apparent right after the accident, causing a haemorrhage within the brain, which means there was a slow but steady internal bleeding. His pupils are not reacting to light stimuli, meaning that his brain has suffered some major damage. If you want my honest opinion …"

He paused and softly touched Grandma's arm. She nodded blankly.

I sat down on the edge of the mattress behind her as my knees buckled with the shock.

"I think it is very unlikely that he will regain consciousness. In fact, there's not much I can do …"

"How long …", I began, finding I couldn't finish the sentence.

"There's no way of saying how long he will hang on. Anything is possible in this state. Any prognosis I give you might be wrong." He cast his eyes downward with a sad apologetic smile.

_Let him go fast if he must go,_ I prayed. I could not bear the thought that he might be lying like this for days or longer with no hope of his blue eyes ever twinkling at us again, of his booming voice complaining about Grandma's ways with gruff indulgence, of me and him going about our daily business in quiet companionship.

I stroked his cheek with the back of my hand. It was unusually stubbly. Grandpa had always been accurately clean-shaven, no scraggly fisherman's beard for him, thank you very much.

It felt as if a part of him was already gone. _Come back, _I begged silently. _Don't leave us alone like this, without a proper goodbye._

Tears stung my eyes.

I remembered how we had walked off in our oilskins every so often, fishing tackle in hand, when Mom and I had been living here.

I remembered another walk by a river in Missouri when he had been the first person to ask me how I really felt about my new home.

I remembered his laugh and his political rants and his misgivings about the blessings of technology. All the little things he'd taught me. His patience, his understanding of my little joys and sorrows, his way of taking me seriously even when I'd been just a kid.

What was I going to do without him to turn to?

Then I scolded myself for thinking about him as if he were already dead. Talk of self-fulfilling prophecies. Shouldn't I believe a miracle could happen?

Grandma was holding his hand, her thin fingers entwined with his gnarled, broad ones. She wore her wedding band whose colour had dulled over the years. He didn't. He never had, he used to say it was too dangerous to wear it at work, and besides, he didn't want to lose it. I knew his ring was still shiny and golden. He kept it in a small box a drawer of his bedside table and had shown it to me when I was a little boy inquiring why he didn't wear a ring while Grandma did.

We sat by his side wordlessly, hardly ever moving, warily watching his chest rise and fall, flinching at every irregularity.

After a while, his breathing seemed to become shallower and at the same time more laboured. I got up to open the window. Perhaps the fresh air that always carried a tiny hint of the sea would bring him back or at least help him breathe.

The sun was high in a sky of brightest blue. Not a hint of the bad weather that had been forecast.

I drew back the curtain to let the sunlight fall on the bed and sat back down. "Fine fishing weather, Grandpa", I said softly, blinking back the tears that clouded my eyes yet again, and squeezed his shoulder lightly. His muscles were still taut and firm. I couldn't believe that he wouldn't open his eyes any moment to announce he couldn't stand lying around like that, and let's go to work now, my lad.

Grandma asked me to fetch her a glass of water. I realized that neither of us had eaten or drunk anything since our meagre breakfast and went downstairs to put a jug of water and two glasses on a tray. Grandma ought to eat something, I thought and I looked around for something edible. There must be a tin of leftover cookies somewhere. I finally found it and took my tray upstairs.

When I came back into the room, I found her lying beside Grandpa on top of the covers, her face against his cheek, one arm across his chest.

She was whispering something into his ear, unaware of my return.

I stopped by the door as not to disturb them. Maybe he would sense her touch, her presence, her love. Maybe she would help him come back against all odds.

It wasn't the moment to make her eat now. I set the tray down on the floor without a sound and remained where I was. She still hadn't noticed me coming back.

There was a glistening trace of moisture running down her wrinkled cheek from the corner of her closed eye. She murmured, "What'll I do without you, John? Don't leave me. I love you. We need you here. Please …"

I stood rooted to the spot, watching. Something about the scene seemed wrong but I couldn't yet put a finger on it.

Suddenly I realized that it was too quiet, apart from Grandma's tiny voice at Grandpa's ear. His ragged breath was no longer audible.

For the fraction of a second, I hoped this was a good sign.

Reality hit me with a hard, hard blow. His chest was no longer moving steadily. Not even unsteadily.

He was gone.

He had left while I was away, searching for some stupid cookies.

A small whimpering noise irritated me. It took me a moment to realize it had come from my own throat. I stuffed my fist into my mouth like a child to silence myself.

Very slowly, very quietly, I walked over and knelt down beside the bed, reaching out a shaky hand to touch Grandma's arm.

She turned and looked at me with dark tearless eyes, defeated, desolate. Her lips were quivering.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked desperately. "W … without him?"

"I don't know", I said in a choked tone. "Go on somehow, I suppose." My voice cracked as a sob broke out of me. She sat up and swept me into her arms as she had done when I was a child, weeping over something that had upset my little world.

I wondered if it shouldn't be the other way round, _me _comforting _her._

But then, we'd both lost a lifelong companion. I wrapped my arms around her small, fragile figure, cradling her head against my shoulder, and we both let the floodgates break, crying unabashedly for this simple, kind-hearted man who had given both of us so much in his gruffly loving way.

The sudden rush of rain outside the window made me look up with puffy eyes, just as the clouds parted to let a faint rainbow show.

I pointed at it wordlessly.

"He's telling us that he's arrived", Grandma whispered with a tearful, bittersweet smile.

* * *

><p>This time, I've decided to put the soundtrack at the end of the story, a beautiful, melancholy song of goodbye: "Bagatelle" by Young Rebel Set. (There's a very good version of it at youtube if you want to listen.)<p>

_And they said you were a true gentleman  
>even 'til the end,<br>the likes of which we'll rarely see again_

_I found myself alone wandering,  
>oh searching deep within,<br>but some questions don't need answering_

_But I hope that I do get to see you  
>and I just pull myself through just to meet you<br>just once more, just once more (…)_

_And it's so hard to see her cry  
>'cos I love her so dearly<br>and it's the last time he'll close his eyes_


End file.
